IF: Fifty Shades of Grey
Of all the adjectives that could be used to describe Fifty Shades of Grey, I never imagined that one would be ‘dull.’ Instead of the sexy-fun romp many were hoping for, the adaptation of EL James’ smutty bestseller was actually a colossal turn-off, setting every sex scene to deafening pop music and delivering cringeworthy line after cringeworthy line (“Laters, baby,” anyone?).
Though Dakota Johnson valiantly struggled to act, and director Sam Taylor-Johnson tried to inject some class, they both ended up dominated by glorified fan-fiction writer EL James, who ruled the entire production with an iron fist (and a cat-of-nine-tails, I can only imagine). James just had no idea what she was doing – she warped what could have been a sensual and stylish romance into a numbingly explicit Harlequin bodice-ripper brought to life.
What’s left is a limp, lifeless Skinemax entry far less erotic than even Gilbert Gottfried’s reading of the source material. The dialogue is atrocious, most of the acting is terrible, the tone is all over-the-place and there’s just no escaping how sinister the unhealthy, abusive relationship between Christian Grey and Anastasia Steele really is. Remove Christian’s expensive suits, and he’s just a manipulative creep preying on an innocent, malleable romantic. Almost as disturbing: that this, the first mainstream Hollywood porno (because pretensions aside, that’s what Fifty Shades is) isn’t even a particularly good one.
